


a single man in possession of a good fortune

by erebones



Series: a truth universally acknowledged [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Breaking Up & Making Up, Drama, M/M, Valeting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-15 20:28:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9255506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erebones/pseuds/erebones
Summary: After a year abroad serving Felix as his valet (and his lover), Carver Hawke returns home to some unexpected news.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I started this awhile ago and never finished it. So I finished it, just now. Hopefully it holds up :D

“Look at you! You’re nearly as brown as I am.”

Felix’s laughter is infectious. Carver tamps down his smile and rolls up one sleeve obligingly. “I think you’re exaggerating a little. And it’ll fade in no time, now that we’re back in England.”

“Hmm. A pity. The sunkissed look suits you.” Felix leaves off unpacking and hooks his fingers in the front of Carver’s waistcoat. “Come here. I feel like I haven’t been able to kiss you for weeks.”

“So dramatic,” Carver murmurs, but he allows himself to be drawn into a kiss—a _proper_ kiss, not one of the brief pecks or glancing smudges they’ve had to make do with for the past week and a half of travel. In the Alexius home in Bombay, they could be as free with each other as they liked; even in many of the other countries they’d traveled to over the last year, people rarely paid any mind if two men walked closely together in the boulevards and exchanged tender looks in the public gardens or on the promenade. Carver quite liked Nice for precisely that reason. 

Travelling back to his home country had been a test of his fortitude. Public transport, even the finer accommodations which Felix took, made it difficult to get a moment alone. In the train they’d slept in separate bunks, sometimes even separate carriages, and he’d missed this easy tenderness. So he wraps Felix up in his arms and kisses him silly, and when he releases him Felix is already back on tip-toe, silently begging for more. 

“Are Cullen and Dorian expecting us for dinner?” he asks a little while later, his clothes distinctly mussed and his hair every which way. Felix’s mouth is red and swollen, but he looks entirely too pleased with himself as he goes to sort through all the things he’d brought back from the continent—mostly books in languages Carver doesn’t speak, and which Carver isn’t permitted to touch. Not out of fear that Carver’s boorish ignorance will somehow degrade the volumes, but because they are gifts for Felix’s father in London, and Count Alexius is incredibly particular about things like fingerprints and skin oils that Carver would never think to worry about. 

“I believe they’re still in London,” Felix says absently. He peels back a bit of tissue-paper to check the cover of one of the books and makes a considering noise. “I was thinking of joining them, in fact, once we’ve got our feet back under us. I haven’t seen my father all winter—perhaps, if there is room in that great bloody laboratory of his, we could stay with him. What do you think?”

Carver shrugs easily and unlatches one of the many trunks they’d brought back with them. “I am but your humble valet. You go, and I follow.”

If Felix casts him a look of irritation, he doesn’t pay it any mind. He knows Felix doesn’t like it when he draws attention to the differences in their social status, but he nurses a private belief that it’s healthy to redraw the lines on occasion. Felix may be _eccentric_ , in his own words and in Dorian’s, but he is still nobility, and still (somewhat) subject to the social mores that rule their lives. And no matter how much they share, no matter that Carver sleeps in Felix’s bed at night and takes meals with him like an equal, he is still only his valet. And that will never change. 

They are mostly unpacked, whittling down the terrific mess they’ve made of the guest suite, when a knock comes on the door. Carver makes a quick pass over his hair and his clothes to make sure everything is in place, and goes to answer it. 

“Sir!” A young footman stands there, eyes wide and darting nervously from side to side. “A visitor for Mr Hawke, if it please milord.”

“For me?” Carver echoes stupidly. Valets don’t get visitors—at least, not the sort of visitor that would merit a personal message from a footman. No one ever _calls on_ servants. “Who is it?”

The footman fumbles with the card in his hand, though from his manner he clearly already knows. “A-a-a Lady Amell, sir. L-Lady Leandra Amell.”

Carver feels himself go ice cold and then hot as a roaring fire, and by the time Felix lays a hand on his arm the footman has gone and he’s standing in the open door, alone. “Carver, what on earth…? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

The card has somehow migrated its way into his hand. He looks at it, for lack of anything else to do, and his mother’s maiden name stares back at him as if in accusation. “I don’t understand.”

“Understand what, darling? Who is this Lady Amell?”

His lips don’t feel entirely as if they belong to him as he says, numbly, “She’s my mother.”

//

The last time he’d seen his mother was two autumns before, when he and Felix had left for the continent. They’d been gone a year and a half, very nearly—time enough that she looks almost like a different person, when he walks into the drawing room. She’s standing by the picture window like a painting, dressed in pretty dove grey silk with just a tinge of lilac, befitting a woman of her age, albeit a woman of far higher stature. Her hair, which she had always kept in a neat roll at the nape of her neck, is combed back in a high braided knot, with silver curls glinting artfully around her face. 

She turns when they come in, revealing the black lace parasol in one hand—she extends the other to Carver in greeting, and when he hesitates, Felix steps forward to take it instead, bowing and kissing the back of it politely. 

“Lady Amell, what a pleasant surprise. I am Felix Alexius, son of Count Alexius; I understand you’re Hawke’s mother.”

How easily he flows back into the social graces of England. Leandra smiles benevolently, easing a little of the tension around her eyes, and Carver in turn relaxes at the abatement of her scrutiny. “My dear boy, I’m delighted to finally meet you. I’ve heard such wonderful things from Lord Rutherford. Forgive the intrusion so soon after you’ve arrived, but when I heard you were back in town I simply had to come see my son.”

“You couldn’t have written a note?” Carver blurts out, fists clenched to his sides. All the polite chit-chat is scraping at his skin, and breaking the veneer of good manners is obscenely satisfying. “My god, Mother, what’s happened while I was away?”

“I wasn’t entirely sure of your address, and I didn’t wish to disrupt your holiday,” she says with some measure of distress, cultivated to deflect his outburst. _Holiday_ indeed—perhaps it had been a bit relaxed, but he’d been _working_. He was a _valet_ , for god’s sake, not a lord. “Thus I came as quickly as I could once I heard you’d returned. I’ve taken apartments in the village, you see.”

“Apartments? What about the cottage?”

Leandra’s mouth pinches tight like the clasp on a valise, and he falls silent. “My dear, I am trying to explain, if you would but give me time.”

Felix has been growing smaller and more obscure in the corner all this time, and at this quiet juncture he lifts his voice a little to say, “Perhaps I should step out a moment? Give you time to talk?”

“No, stay,” Carver says, at the same time his mother opens her mouth to agree—he knows it by the flash of irritation on her face, quickly masked. 

“At least let me call for tea,” Felix says, and escapes, letting the parlor door snick shut behind him. 

And Carver is left bereft, standing before his mother like a pauper before his queen, entirely uncertain how to proceed. A little of Leandra’s prickly exterior unwinds, and she lowers herself to the settee in a cloud of flowery perfume. “Will you sit, darling? And I will try to make this as painless as possible.”

 _Too late for that,_ he thinks, but he sits as directed, perching himself on a chair a little distance away. “All right then. Explain. _Please_ ,” he adds, with more than a little desperation. 

“Several months ago I received a letter,” she begins without ceremony, hands folded in her lap. That, at least, he remembers—her matter-of-factness, the easy grace she carried with her everywhere. “A letter from my late father’s solicitor. I had one brother, as you know, but he was a reprobate and when it became clear that he was not following the strictures of my father’s will to his solicitor’s satisfaction, he was legally absolved of all title and inheritance, save for a little monthly sum which he drank and gambled away.”

“You can do that?” Carver asks. “Not the drinking and gambling bit, but withholding an inheritance?”

“I’m not certain how often it’s _done_ ,” Leandra allows, “but it was certainly done here. Sadly, Gamlen passed away some time ago, and he left so few friends behind that it took the solicitor, a Mr Bodahn Feddic, a great deal of time and energy to track him down. When he was legally proven to be deceased…” She takes a deep breath, as if fighting with herself how exactly to frame these next words. “In short, the will outlined that if Gamlen died without an heir born of a sanctioned marriage, the Amell titles and lands and fortune would pass to me and my descendants.”

Carver doesn’t know which question to ask first. They flit about his skull like caged birds let loose suddenly in a small closet, clouding his thoughts, and he blurts out the first thing that makes any kind of sense. “I thought your parents disowned you.”

“Not quite. They never removed me from their will, they just refused to see or speak to me.” Her mouth twitches as if she understands the irony of her own statement—as if she would have rather had the promise of a little money at the end of her parents’ lives instead of their love and support. But both of those are a rare find in high society, Carver thinks. 

“So Gamlen is dead, and now you’re… what, Dowager something Amell?”

“Just Lady Amell,” she says, with a little shrug. “I am not a Dowager Viscountess, not without a Viscount to afford me the title. I could remarry, I suppose, but the idea holds little appeal.” She sighs, a little of her pompous aura draining away, and Carver abruptly feels sorry for her. “Sometimes I think I feel your father’s shadow standing over me, demanding to know what on earth I’m doing.”

“If Father _is_ there, I’m sure he’s only admiring how pretty you look,” he says, a touch awkwardly, but the smile that blooms on his mother’s face is worth it. “Mother… about Bethy and I…”

“Ah yes. That is… the difficult part. According to the will… one or both of you must be married off to a family of good standing, to cement our family status. It’s not easy to crawl back up from nothing, you see. We may have money, and a title, but the title rings hollow without any kind of support behind it.”

“Married off?” Carver echoes blankly. It occurs to him suddenly that Felix has not returned with tea, and he suddenly hopes very much that he won’t return at all. “You mean… Bethy has to be presented?”

“I’m afraid so—or she would if she would stop being her father’s daughter, stubborn mule that he was.” She says it with a twist of her mouth that betrays her worry, even though the words are said with fondness. “She hasn’t spoken to me since I moved out of the cottage.”

A burning desire to see his sister overtakes him, and he stands up in a hurry. “I think I’d better go speak to her then. See if I can’t—” He stops, choking on the words. “See if I can’t talk some sense into her.”

“Carver, one more thing.” She reaches out for him, and because he’s not a total bastard he takes it and presses it between his own. “There is no time limit, but Bethany is rapidly approaching the end of marriageable age and must be present next Season. If you can convince her…”

“Marriageable age,” he snorts, but nods. Barely twenty years old is the beginning of spinsterhood, it seems. “I’ll talk to her. And Mother—for me…”

“You should begin circulating yourself in society as soon as possible,” she says, eyes strained with unspoken apology. “You are a poor man’s son, Carver, but you are polite and well read and certainly well traveled, now… and you are very handsome, though perhaps I may be biased. I think you will be quite welcome in high society circles, if you manage to hold your tongue when it should be held. Count Alexius has spoken well of you to me, when we met in London a few months ago—I have no doubt he would give you his support, whatever it is worth. He is a respectable man, if a bit… eccentric.”

Carver has met Gereon a handful of times, when he could be spared from his laboratory to come visit his son abroad. He is softspoken, hiding a terrifyingly intelligent mind, and he’s not ashamed to admit he was intimidated whenever the Count came to stay with them in Bombay. _Eccentric_ is a mild way of putting it. And now his mother is suggesting _befriending_ him, as an equal? Asking for his patronage into society? His head spins, and he rubs his forehead aggrievedly. 

“I won’t ask him for any favors—nor of Felix. I won’t be indebted to anyone, Mother.”

“I know it might be difficult, at first, what with him having been your employer this last year, but surely he could…”

“Mother, enough. I don’t want Felix involved in this, and that’s the end of it.”

There’s a little sound at the door and Carver turns to see Felix standing in the open doorway, tea tray in hand. There’s no telling how much he heard—but his tight, unhappy face gives some hints. On instinct, Carver takes the tray from him and sets it on the side table. 

“Carver, you don’t—I mean, Hawke—” Trapped by his familiarity, Felix glances to Leandra and back to Carver. So painfully polite all of a sudden, in the face of chaos. “I can call a footman—”

“Don’t,” Carver says, more sharply than he means to. “That is—” The familiar cloak of servitude falls heavy on his shoulders, and it’s almost a relief. He bows, face smooth as glass. “If I may be excused, sir. It’s an urgent personal matter.”

Stricken, Felix’s pretty manners slip. “You needn’t ask me for permission, Mr… Amell?”

Somehow that’s worse than the cool diffidence of _Hawke_. “Felix, please,” he says, very quietly. He’s aware of his mother’s presence in the room only distantly, still and grey as a statuette on the settee, but all he can think about it _I need his permission to be excused_. 

Felix bites his lip. “Very well. Take the day, Haw-ke.” His voice breaks in the middle, but he forges ahead without correcting himself. “Take as long as you need.”

“Thank you.” He bows very quickly, first to Felix and then to his mother, and escapes with the shreds of his dignity lying in tatters on the floor behind him. 

A footman tries to capture his attention as he flees, hailing him a welcome, but Carver doesn’t look to see who it is. When he bursts out of the house, the slap of wet summer air is a relief—it’s absolutely _pouring_. When did that happen? Last he recalled it was sunny and fair when they pulled up to the Rutherford estate. He shakes rainwater out of his eyes and stalks through the gardens to the fields that border Cullen’s property. In the near distance, through the heavy grey smudge of rain, he can see his mother’s cottage nestled in the lee of a hill, whitewashed and tidy as ever with the fruit trees along the front. It shines like a beacon through the gale, and he makes for it, every stride slashing through the tall grass like a scythe. When he reaches the stoop and turns to look back, he can see the track he made like a silvery stream cutting through the field. He sighs and thuds his fist against the door. 

“Bethy, it’s me!”

There’s a clatter from inside and then the door is flung open and his twin sister is there, gaping at him. “Carver? You’re home! My god, you’re soaked to the skin, come in! Come in!”

“I’ve just seen Mother,” he says, ducking inside. The cottage is warm and tidy, just like he remembers it—all that’s missing is the stewpot bubbling on the stove and the smell of fresh-baked bread. Instead he smells crushed herbs and pewter, and he knows Bethany has been messing with her medicinal concoctions again. 

“Already? She moves quickly, doesn’t she,” Bethy mutters, turning to stoke the fire and fetch blankets from the linen closet. She makes him take off his soaked shirt and hose, and puts him in a spare shirt that he’s fairly sure belonged to his Father, for how soft and worn it is. He fingers the seams, mended over and over, and feels a pang of loss for the simplicity of it. 

“I’d only just got back from abroad and she came to the house. Is it true, Bethy?”

“Which part?” She sits them both at the kitchen table and pushes a blate of biscuits his way. They’re not as good as Leandra’s, but they’re heavily studded with fruit and he jams almost an entire one into his mouth before answering. 

“All of it. The inheritance, the will, the… marrying bit.”

Crumbs drop every which way when he speaks and she shakes her head fondly. “Yes. That’s the part that sticks out, doesn’t it?” She must’ve put the kettle on to boil just before he arrived, because it begins to whine and then to whistle, prompting her to rise and bring it to the table. Their teapot is a Hawke family heirloom, hand-painted by Malcolm’s mother, and while it may be of humble origin, Carver has many fond memories of the tea served from it as a child. 

“She said you’ve not spoken since she moved out,” Carver says hesitantly, watching steam rise as she pours hot water into the teapot.

“Of course I haven’t. She won’t come here, and what am I supposed to do? Go into town and _call on her_ like I’m some highborn lady?”

“You’re a highborn lady _now_.”

“Right. A highborn lady who sweeps her own house and cooks her own meals, and walks on foot to town to visit the butcher’s. A highborn lady who pulls her own weeds and prunes her own shrubbery.”

“And I’m a lord who brushes his master’s coat and ties his master’s cravat,” Carver retorts. “This entire thing is a joke, Bethy, I _agree_. I’m on your side.”

She sighs heavily and sits back down, head in her hands. She looks older than the last time he saw her, he thinks—her eyes are sad and tired, and her hair is pulled back in a limp knot at the back of her head. And yet he can see her so clearly in his mind, washed and pressed and outfitted in silk and lace, with pearls at her throat, smiling and laughing as she’s fussed over at balls and parties. She _deserves_ to be fussed over, he thinks. 

“And what about you?” she asks eventually, once the tea has been poured and he’s placated his fears with a few more biscuits. “With your… Lord Felix.”

He doesn’t bother to correct her on his title, only scowling into his teacup. “What about him?”

“What did he say? Are you still going to be…”

“Master and valet?” 

She gives him a sharp look. “Carver, honestly. Don’t be difficult.”

“I don’t _know,_ alright? I didn’t know what to think when she told me, and neither did he—he kept calling me _Amell_ , and trying to treat me like… like…”

“Like what?”

“Like a _noble_.”

“Carver, you _are_ a noble,” she laughs, though it’s as strained and hollow as the expression in her eyes. “And anyway, that’s not what I meant. If we’re to be married off…”

He groans and puts his head on the table. There’s a sick, cold twist in his gut as he fancies that not all the tea in England would be enough to soothe it. “I don’t want to think about it. I _can’t_.”

“It’s all right for you though, isn’t it? You don’t need to be presented to society like a piece of meat at the market to be hawked and haggled over.” She makes a face as if she’s about to spit, but she refrains. “The pressure will be greater on me. Mother says I need to be presented as soon as possible, since my _marriageability_ is so fragile, and will dwindle into nothing the older I get.”

“It’s all shit,” Carver says vehemently. 

Then it seems there’s nothing more to say. They drink their tea in mutually disgusted silence, and in an effort to ignore everything they just discussed, Carver helps her with some of the more difficult chores around the place that she hasn’t managed for herself. Evening is coming on when there’s a long halloo and Aveline lets herself in through the back gate, still soot-smudged from the day’s work. She stops to see _both_ twins in the garden, but recovers herself quickly and comes to catch Carver up in her steely embrace.

“God above, Hawke, it’s good to see you. Back from the big wide world, then?”

“Just today.” He looks at Bethany, leaning against her hoe, and receives a nod of acknowledgement. “I take it _you’ve_ heard about all this mess?”

“From both ends, believe me. Leandra seems to think it’s my duty to convince Bethany to do her _familial duty._ ” She sighs, brushing a wisp of hair out of Carver’s eyes in a motherly fashion. “I suppose you’re just as pleased as your sister about the news.”

“Something like that. I honestly don’t know _what_ to think.” He shakes his head as if to ward off the thoughts he’s been avoiding all afternoon. “Will you come inside, Ave? We can at least discuss this over tea like civilized people.”

“Civilized, is it?” she laughs, but she accepts his invitation and hooks her arms with Bethany as they return to the house. “I suppose you’ll have to be that, one way or another.”

“Not if Bethy has anything to say about it,” he says, and he’s only half joking. Beth makes a noncommittal sound in response and sets about making tea.

“ _I’m_ not entirely sure what the problem is.” Aveline settles herself at the kitchen table, booted feet thunking against the floor and her knees sprawled wide in their leather britches. She’s a bit of an anomaly, being a woman blacksmith, but she works metal even better than her late husband, and the little village of Haven has seen stranger things. The master of the house at Honnleath Manor, for one—but that’s not the sort of thing people talk about in good company. “Imagine having someone _else_ make your tea, and weed your garden, and mend your clothes. What I wouldn’t give to have a little help around the house!”

“Donnick helps,” Bethany says slyly, and Carver feels his ears perk up as if they belonged to a dog. 

“Donnick? Who’s Donnick? I don’t recognize the name.”

“A _newcomer_ in the village,” Bethany continues, while Aveline turns tomato-red beneath her copious freckles and stares intently at her forge-black nails. “He was a soldier, but he was given honorable discharge because he got shot in the West Indies. He’s become a bit of a jack-of-all-trades around Haven, and he’s been _quite_ helpful to Aveline at her forge.”

“He has steady hands and a good eye,” Aveline says stiffly as if she hadn’t spoken. “And a useful fellow to have around, it’s true. But I can’t hardly ask him to make my _tea_ can I?”

“And why not? I bet you he would, if you asked.” Bethany pours out the tea and cuts a few slices of old fruitcake to go with. “He would just say _as you wish_ like he does, smiling…”

“You hush yourself,” Aveline interrupts tartly, wrapping her hands around her cup. “We’re not talking about me—we’re talking about the two of _you_. And don’t try to change the subject. It’s quite serious, Miss Bethany, and you haven’t much time to decide.”

“I _have_ decided.” But Bethany doesn’t sound too sure of herself anymore, and when she looks at Carver her expression is pinched and searching. “But I suppose it depends on both of us now, doesn’t it?”

“Can we… decline?” he asks hesitantly. “Just, keep on the way we are, and let mother… parade around at parties and, and float about her big empty townhouse until she dies?”

“There is no townhouse, not yet,” Bethany scoffs. “And of course we can decline, if we choose.”

“But then she won’t have any heirs to take the fortune when she dies, is that right?”

She shrugs unhappily. “I don’t know. I—she’s talked about it often enough, but I couldn’t stand hearing it, and then we fought and… you should speak to Bodahn Feddic, her lawyer. He understands it all, and he’d be perfectly happy to answer your questions. I know because he came to the cottage, a few weeks ago, when Mother had gone.”

“What did he say?”

“I wouldn’t let him across the stoop,” Bethany admits in a small voice, and Carver isn’t sure whether to laugh or cover his face with dismay. “But he talked very extensively from the front gate about being happy to answer my questions, and how to reach him at his office in the city.”

“In London?”

She nods. “I still have it written down somewhere, if you wanted to write him. Or…” She makes a sour face. “Or you could visit him in _style_ yourself, I suppose.”

“With what money?”

“Mother’s, of course. Or yours. If you want it.”

Carver groans and _does_ cover his face with his hands then, though it’s only to rub the ache from behind his eyes. Aveline snorts. “You only just found out today, Carver—nothing needs to be decided now. Or ever, if you prefer to take your sister’s route.”

“You’re planning on ignoring it entirely, then?” He drops his hands to the table and remembers his tea. He sips it while the silence stretches out between them, and it takes until the very last dregs are beading in the bottom of the cup before Bethany speaks again.

“I was, until you came home. So I suppose I can’t ignore it any further, can I?”

“I’m not going to make you do anything, Bethany,” he says gently in reply. 

“But you’re going to take it. The title, the money. All of it.”

“If I don’t, Mother…”

“You’re too soft on her,” she interrupts, an edge to her voice that he can’t quite define. “She’s only manipulating you, you know that don’t you?”

He stares at her in shocked silence. “Bethany—”

“Don’t _Bethany_ me. You haven’t lived with her for the past few years, you were away while all of _this_ was going on…” She gestures broadly, wrists turned out, and for a moment he can see that shadow of his mother in her—a little bit dramatic, a little bit self-involved, but always _elegant_ about it, always neat and trim and quiet. “When she got the news she didn’t hardly spare a thought for us, or for Father—what would she have done if he was still alive?”

“The family fortune wouldn’t have even been offered her, in that case. Come _on_ , Bethany, don’t—she _loved_ Father, how can you even doubt it? She wouldn’t have left her old life behind if she hadn’t.”

She closes her eyes and sighs. “I know. I’m sorry, that was… that wasn’t what I meant.”

He isn’t so sure, but she’s right—their mother can be a force of nature, and he’s been at the Honnleath estate or traveling with Felix for the past few years, free of Leandra’s influence. He hadn’t realized how much it had been weighing on his sister until this very moment. 

Aveline clears her throat after some of the tension has dissolved. “Perhaps it would be best to sleep on it. It’s high time I returned home, and I promised Leandra I would call on her before then.” 

“ _Call on_ ,” Bethany echoes, with a faint air of scorn, but Carver ignores her. 

“Are you going to report to her, then? Tell her we’re both being stubborn as mules?”

“She already knows _that_ ,” Aveline laughs, rising. “She raised you, didn’t she?”

Carver sees her out while Bethany stays behind to take care of the tea-things, and he lingers there for a while on the front stoop, watching her disappear into the evening gloaming. The rain from earlier has passed, leaving behind a violet-washed sky fading into powder blue at the apex of it; down along the hedgerows and the lanes, a low mist rises from the wet ground, bathing everything in a grey velvet blanket. He can barely see the chimneys of Honnleath from here. He feels a little twist to see them, rising like ship’s masts from ocean fog, and he wonders what Felix is doing right now. If he’s looking over his books again, making sure all the proper ones are there for his father—whether he might be taking dinner alone, alone for the first time since he took Carver as his personal valet permanently. 

_Take the day, Hawke. Take as long as you need._

He should return to the manor. Give his formal notice… The thought stabs at his gut like a bad bout of flu, and he folds his arms over his chest in an effort to keep himself outwardly stoic. At the core of him, an instinctive rebellion flares up at the thought. _I don’t want money, I don’t want to be a noble. I want to be Felix’s valet, and his lover, and never leave his side. _

He’s always worked hard, in the stables and later as a member of the household, and the thought of shaking off that comfortable identity to wear another… It makes him a little sick to his stomach. But he has no real option, as far as he’s concerned. His mind is already made up, however much he would like to deny it. His father may have been a commoner, poor and small by the standards of society, but he taught Carver loyalty to family above all else. To decline his mother’s birthright is as unthinkable to him as it is distasteful.

He turns to go back into the house and finds Bethany there behind him, hovering just inside the open door. She smiles at him bravely, though it’s weak as watered-down tea, and reaches out to take his hand. 

“I go where you follow, Carv.”

He swallows hard. “Are you certain? I don’t want to force you into anything, Bethy. But to have you by my side…”

“We’re the Hawke twins, aren’t we? We face the world together. Like we always have.”

He tugs on her workworn hand until she comes close enough to rest her head on his chest. A little of the tight knot inside his belly loosens. “I love you, Beth.”

“And I you. God help me.” She sighs. “Though I may come to hate you before this is all over.”

His wants to laugh, but it’s a dry and strangled thing he barely recognizes. “It’s never really going to be over, is it?”

“One can hope. And I’m hardly a catch, Carver—most likely I’ll suffer one or two Seasons and be put out to pasture like the old biddy I am. _Mother_ has more chance of remarrying than I have of ensnaring a suitor.”

“Old biddy indeed,” he scoffs, pulling back to look at her. Maybe she’s not as fresh and pristine as a noble debutante who’s been waited on hand and foot for her entire life, but he is of the opinion that it only makes her more beautiful. He brushes a curl of dark hair away from her face. “There has to be one decent fellow in London, mustn’t there?”

She huffs a disbelieving laugh. “If there is, I think you might have snared him already.”

He has a sudden, quizzical thought of Felix and Bethany… and it makes him so irrationally upset that he quells it as best he can, forcing a smile. “Between him and Rutherford I’m sure we can find someone suitable. Someone who, at the very least, will be stodgy and boring and let you do as you please.”

Bethany pulls a face. “I’d rather marry a horse.”

“That can be arranged.” He laughs aloud and ducks away from her grasping fingers. “Get away! Come on, let’s go back inside. We should decide what we’re going to tell Mother.”

//

Carver knocks gently on the sitting room door. Almost before his knuckles land a second time, his mother’s voice sounds through the wood paneling, “Come!” with a little too much pent-up excitement to sound quite proper. He bites his lips and steps in. 

“Well? What do you think?”

Leandra stands up from the settee, eyes bright and one hand pressed to her pursed lips. “Turn,” she says from behind it, and he does, self-conscious, keeping his gaze just above eye level. 

His new outfit is certainly more comfortable than he had been expecting. All his life he’d worn plain, boring, hand-me-down clothes—working with horses was a messy business—and when he was moved into the manor house his clothing had been pre-made and tailored afterward to fit. This was the first time he’d had a completely new wardrobe of his very own, all in the finest cuts and fabrics and the latest fashions—though he knows very little about any of those, only trusting in his mother’s tailors to do what was best—and everything sits perfectly against his skin, a little snug in places but nothing constricting or uncomfortable. He looks down at himself as he turns back to face her rather than meet her eyes. He’s not entirely prepared to see the excitement there. 

He’s wearing black leather riding boots and breeches in such a light fawn they’re nearly cream-colored. His coat is the rich color of espresso, his waistcoat a clean midnight blue, and the cravat… well, that might be the only part he longs to strip off and throw away. The tailor had tied it himself, batting away Carver’s hands when he tried, and it’s a little snugger and a little… _fluffier_ … than he normally prefers. But the overall result is difficult to disparage. He’d allowed himself one quick look in the mirror when all was said and done, and a young dandy had been staring back. A sober dandy, perhaps, but certainly a lordling that Carver has never seen before in his life. And the haircut, of course, even though his own was perfectly serviceable. And the shave, closer than any he’s ever managed on his own… He makes a face and looks at his mother. 

“Well? What do you think?”

Leandra has her hands clasped in front of her chest. At his word she comes a little closer, one hand out to brush his sleeve, and he thinks there are tears glittering in her eyes, unshed. “You look like your father.”

Above anything else, this was the last thing he was expecting to hear. “But he was never…”

“I know, darling, I know. I know what he was, and I loved him for it.” If he blushes at her reproach, she says nothing about it, only presses on with the determination of someone close to tears. “You have his chin, that same stern brow he used to have when presented with a problem. That Hawke stubbornness.” She smiles, watery, and strokes his chin. “Thank you for doing this, Carver. I know you despise it.”

“I don’t… _despise_ it,” he says gruffly, though he silently admits to himself that it’s not far off. 

“Come,” she says, ignoring him. “Bethy is waiting in the back garden.”

“Why not inside?” he asks, though he follows as she asks, suddenly nervous for his sister’s opinion of him. 

“She kept saying it was stuffy, so I sent her out,” Leandra replies, longsuffering. She casts a glance at him over her shoulder as if to commiserate, but he has no blame to lay at his sister’s door. It _is_ stuffy in his mother’s—in _their_ —new London accommodations, and his mother is, for some reason, reluctant to open the windows to let in some fresh air. 

It’s just one more thing to add to the list. A new difficulty or irritation seems to present itself at every turn, and he’s beginning to drag under their weight. This _wardrobe_ business is one of the few things to turn out alright since they began this ridiculous affair. And if he feels a bit like a peacock, well. At least his mother is pleased. 

Beth is out in the garden, looking pinched and a little forlorn in one of her multitude of new dresses, a white bit of linen and lace fit for a debutante. There’s a very faint pinstripe on the underskirt, the palest shade of grey-blue, and it matches the blue flecks in her golden eyes. Her hair is up, too, higher than she usually wears it, though kept in a simple knot with a few strands hanging in loose, natural curls around her face. She lifts her chin up as they approach, tracking Carver’s progress. Slowly, her lips curl into a smile, and she puts her hands on her hips in a very unladylike fashion. 

“Serrah! Look at how handsome you are!” 

“Thanks,” he mumbles, ducking to accept a kiss on the cheek. “You look lovely, Beth.”

“I feel like a peacock with all these skirts,” she says, but there’s a glimmer in her eye that says she doesn’t mind playing a bit of dress-up. “And you, sir, look quite the peacock yourself. All these colors!”

“ _Muted_ colors,” Leandra murmurs, but she is obviously delighted that Carver has gained his sister’s approval. 

Carver’s head is still spinning as he takes his sister’s arm to head back into the house. She looks like a _lady_ , the pretty simplicity of her clothes and hair making her even more beautiful than he already knew her to be. He can easily imagine her on the arm of some rich fellow, or being admired and fawned over at some godawful party. It sours his stomach to think of… and yet, that’s what he wants most. For her to be admired, petted, for her heart to be stolen by someone worthy of it. 

Perhaps that’s a selfish thought, but he can’t bring himself to feel badly about it. If she could find someone, someone rich and well-respected and also _decent_ , a clever man, someone with more than two wits to rub together… well, that would leave him free, then, wouldn’t it? Free to live as he pleased, whether in London or without, at some country estate that is distant enough for his comfort and well-appointed enough to earn his mother’s approval. Free to…

Of course he thinks of Felix. He can’t help it. Much as he’s tried otherwise, he thinks of him every day. He thought of him most of all as he was glancing at himself in the mirror, all trim and elegant, worthy of… someone like Felix. Felix has never made him feel _less than_ , never made him feel as if he wasn’t good enough for Felix. It was Carver, really, who enforced the boundaries between them. And now there _are_ no boundaries, except for whatever lines he drew in the sand when he fled Honnleath that fateful day. He remembers Felix’s face, bloodless and stricken, and the pit of his stomach hardens into a knot. _I’ve done something terrible, and it’s up to me to fix it. But how?_

A few days pass in a flurry of settling in, too fast for Carver to keep track of. They’ve only just moved into their London apartments—a small but elegant townhouse in a pretty part of town that’s neither too poor nor too grand—that once belonged to the Amell family before Gamlen lost his right to live in the place. But whatever disrepair it had fallen into in the intervening years is nowhere to be seen. The woodwork shines, the walls sparkle, and the halls are so spotless that Carver fears to set foot in them without first taking off his boots. When the maid caught him trying just that morning, she’d doubled over laughing and told him not to trouble himself. It’s the only real bright spot he can see so far: the servants are uncommonly comfortable with them (or he and Bethany, at least), and have no qualms in telling them how best to behave. They all came highly recommended, apparently—everything was arranged between Leandra and Bodahn Feddic, an uncommonly cheerful man with an undeniably trustworthy nature—and Carver has already made a point to befriend their footmen and a few of the more talkative maids. He was once one of them, after all, and as he is far from haughty about his new position, they are willing and even eager to gossip or give advice. Having worked all his life in a stable, aside from a short time in a backwater country manor and another year or so traveling with a highly unconventional master, he’s ill-equipped to deal with this new lifestyle suddenly thrust upon him. 

A few people visit in those first handful of days, but Carver puts on a wooden smile and doesn’t remember their names, whenever he doesn’t flee to his rooms to hide. Bethany soon puts a stop to that, pouting and scolding him for _abandoning her to the vultures_. As the majority of them are Leandra’s girlhood friends, returning to fawn over her now that her fortune has been returned, he can hardly deny the comparison. 

Then, nearly a full week since they’ve settled in London—though Carver is still finding his feet—a footman knocks on the drawing room door and announces, “Lord Cullen Rutherford of Honnleath, sir. Madame.”

Bethany is out in the garden “getting some air,” or more likely grubbing in the dirt with her gloves tucked into the ribbon around her waist, so it’s only Leandra and Carver, she passing the time with embroidery and he flipping through a gossip rag with increasing irritation. At the sound of Cullen’s name he slaps the paper down and jumps up just in time for the man himself to be ushered in. He’s alone—fortunately or unfortunate, Carver isn’t sure—and his arrival is like a breath of fresh, familiar air in the stuffy sitting room. 

“Hawke!” he exclaims as soon as he sees him, and that’s even better. Mostly people just call him _Mr. Amell_ , or some variant thereof, and he’s heartily sick of it. He comes forward and clasps Carver’s hand, and the smile Carver gives him in return is the first sincere one he’s worn in weeks. 

“Rutherford. My god, it’s good to see you.”

“I have no doubt of that,” Cullen laughs, and then he turns and sweeps his coattails behind him as he bows low. “Milady Amell. Forgive me for not greeting you first. You look radiant.”

“Ever the silvertongued sweet-talker, I see,” she murmurs, clearly pleased. Carver recalls suddenly that she knows Cullen just as well as he himself—a vision manifests behind his eyes, or perhaps it’s a memory, of milk and cookies under the apple tree outside his cottage, both boys in torn britches and mud-stained shirts, laughing as they hid from Cullen’s father in the safety of Leandra Hawke’s baking. 

“I try, madam. I try. You must forgive me, but I admit the most pressing reason for my visit, aside from welcoming you to London, was to speak privately with Carver.”

Carver is a little startled by his frankness, but Leandra doesn’t appear so at all. “Of course, sir, of course. The study is free, I believe?” She turns to Carver with a querying eye and he gives a brief, aborted bow just a little too late to be polite. 

“Yes of course. Rutherford, after you.” He gestures to the door and follows him out into the hall, letting himself relax a little as soon as he’s out of his mother’s eyesight. But only a very little. “Thank you for coming,” he says quietly, eyes on the floor. In the next moment he presses away from the closed door and turns to make for the study, but Cullen’s soft voice stops him. 

“You don’t need to thank me, Carver. We’re friends, I believe, aren’t we? Or we were, once?”

Carver stops and looks at him. All his stiff, if jolly, gentlemanliness has faded away, and he looks a great deal more like Carver’s boyhood companion than he ever has. “I believe we are,” he agrees slowly, and is astounded by the relief bleeding into Cullen’s face. 

“Good. Good. I apologize for not coming sooner, things have been… a bit tied up at home. But I came as soon as I could, and I hope I haven’t left it too long. After everything that’s happened… well. I barely recognize you.” It’s said cheerfully, but Carver’s answering grimace is hardly that. 

“I hardly recognize myself, truth be told.” He takes a step down the hall and Cullen falls in beside him easily, pacing shoulder to shoulder all the way to the study. It overlooks the back garden instead of the street, and outside they can make out Bethany half-hidden in the shrubbery, wrestling with a bower of roses that has grown wild in the absence of a gardener. There is one, Carver thinks, or perhaps it’s the job of their stableman, but Bethany has made it her private job without saying a word to anyone, and somehow it has been easily accepted among the household staff that the garden is Miss Bethany’s business. 

“I can’t imagine it’s been easy. What a tremendous surprise to walk into, right upon coming home.”

He shuts the study door behind them and nods ruefully. “I—bugger it, I’m doing this all wrong, aren’t I? Can I call for—for some tea, or… something stronger?”

Cullen squeezes his shoulder, pale blue eyes direct and unwavering. “You’re doing just fine, Hawke. And a bit of brandy wouldn’t go amiss, I don’t think.”

“Right. Good.” He nods, a bit jerky, and goes to the cabinet. His own stash, apparently, though he and Bethany got roaringly drunk on some of the contents a few nights ago, and only managed to hide the beleaguered evidence from their mother with the help of some of the servants. He pours out a few fingers of brandy for each of them, a bit sloppy, and when he turns Cullen has already made himself comfortable before the empty fireplace. It’s far too warm to have one lit, and in fact one of the windows is cracked to let in a light breeze—as the study seems to be Carver’s _place_ , he can get away with a few comfortable touches that escape his mother’s notice. He sits in the opposite chair and hands over the tumbler. 

“Thank you. To your new status.” He lifts his glass with a bit of an ironic twist to his mouth which Carver echoes, accompanied by a toneless grunt. Still, it’s good brandy, and a swallow or two send a pleasant burn through him that helps to steady the tension in his limbs. 

“Wretched thing that it is,” he murmurs after, and Cullen hums in commiseration. 

“I know it must seem blightedly difficult to you, with everything happening so quickly, but I promise it’s not all bad. If you move in the right circles, avoid the right people…”

“I don’t want anything to do with _any_ people,” Carver says bluntly. “Or circles, or any of it. I know I must seem terribly ungrateful to you—forgive me, but I’ve had precious few people to speak of this to, my tongue has rather run away with me.”

“Don’t apologize for a damned thing. You have every right to be upset.” He swirls his glass about and sips, making a small noise of appreciation. “Good stuff, this. And listen—you have my ear whenever you need, and my recommendation to _whomever_ you need. And of course you have Felix.” There’s a weighty pause in which Carver’s breath catches in his chest and Cullen gives him a meaningful look, and then Cullen says, more softly, “You _do_ have Felix, don’t you?”

“I think you would know that better than I,” Carver manages at last. “I’ve not seen him since… since we returned to Honnleath.”

There’s a bit of quiet and a soft sigh, and Cullen takes another sip of brandy. “I know. I’ve hardly seen him myself, truth be told—only the once, and he looked absolutely wretched.”

Carver swallows. “Oh?”

“I can stop speaking of it, if you’d rather.”

“No, I—go on, please. If you would tell it, I would hear it.”

Cullen shakes his head with a wry smile. “Well you certainly _speak_ like a noble. And dress like one, now. Your mother taught you well.”

“She and Father both,” Carver says, feeling a faint instinct to stand up for Malcolm. “But none of it matters, as I have the manners of an ill-tempered cow, or so I’ve been told.”

“Been _told_?” Cullen demands, half-laughing. “By whom, pray tell?”

“One of the maids,” he admits. “They’ve been quite… free, with Beth and I, considering we were one of them until quite recently. It’s been a godsend, in truth. And I did not take offense at her words—they were meant in jest. But true, nevertheless.”

“Hardly that, Hawke. You’re too hard on yourself. But forgive me—we were speaking of Felix.”

Carver frowns at his brandy. “He is… unwell?”

“A bit heartsick, I should think.” Though Carver looks sharply at him, Cullen seems unaware, simply watching the lazy swirl of brand in his glass like liquid gold in the light of late spring. “He hasn’t said much to me, but from Dorian’s testimony he’s been all to pieces since he came to London.”

“Is that so?” Carver asks, indignation making him speak out with some degree of force. “And did he not mention that _he_ was the one who left for London before I could speak to him?”

“He did,” Cullen says calmly, quieting his fury with those two simple words. “He expressed to Dorian that he was… confused. Uncertain. And then he had a letter from his father requesting his presence as soon as may be, so he left the next morning with a great deal of regret. He did say he left a note.”

“He… did?” Suddenly flushed with shame, Carver sits back in his chair. “I was unaware.”

“He left it with one of the footmen, I’m not sure which. I would assume, then, that you did not return to Honnleath at all?”

“Only long enough to hear that he had gone. I…” He sighs and lifts a hand to his head, now aching with frustration. “I’ve behaved abominably, haven’t I.”

“Perhaps a little,” Cullen says, sounding vaguely amused. “But not entirely without cause. And it’s nothing that won’t be easily remedied.”

“I—I must write to him. Immediately.” Carver stands and goes to the desk, rifling for paper and a quill.

“I rather think he would prefer to see you in person,” Cullen is saying. Carver’s hand hesitates over the page, and then he writes in quick, sharp strokes a simple message. 

_If you wish it, I would like to see you. Please allow me to call on you tomorrow afternoon. Send word otherwise and I shall not come. Yours sincerely, C. Hawke_

“Give this to him?” he pleads once it’s been blotted and slipped into a small envelope. “Please?”

“As you like.” Cullen stands and drains his whiskey, slipping the note into his breast pocket. “I am at your disposal, Hawke, always. I left my card with your butler, so you have my address. Dorian and I would be most pleased to have you anytime.”

“Thank you, Cullen. For… well.” He nods instead of elaborating, and they shake hands before Cullen sees himself out. Suddenly devoid of energy, Carver flops onto his vacated chair and rubs his temples with his fingers. 

_Heartsick, he said. Lord, but I’ve been a fool._ Tomorrow, he thinks, can’t come quickly enough. 

///

Carver has heard stories about the Alexius apartments in London from Felix, but this is his first time seeing it first-hand. Not dissimilar to their winter home in India, it’s a modest home—though large enough by his own backcountry standards—tucked on a broad avenue well out of the main bustle of central London, with a wide brick facade and a stately wrought-iron gate. It would be a rather menacing spectacle were it not for the front door, painted a bright goldenrod color and the stoop inlaid with the kind of intricate tilework that Carver remembers from Bombay. The knocker is a roaring lion’s head, and its snarling gaze seems to grip him where he stands and fuse his feet to the floor as if with ice. He swallows hard, lifts his hand, and knocks. 

He can hear the fragile echo in the house beyond, and then the door is opened on a man Carver recognizes instantly—Ojas, Gereon’s butler and personal valet, on the rare occasions that one is needed. Gereon is just as unusual as his son in that regard. At seeing him, Ojas’ eyes pop open and he gives a hasty bow. 

“Hawke. I was told to expect you, but I cannot say I was expecting…” He doesn’t finish his sentence, but the sweep of his dark eyes up and down Carver’s frame is telling enough. He himself is dressed in slightly altered butler’s attire, a dark coat and stiff white collar over solemn black harem pants threaded with purple. His feet are bare. Carver had worn similar things in Bombay, and he’s itching with jealousy from his snug pinstriped waistcoat to his brown riding boots, still stiff in the toe and heel from newness. 

“Is Felix—” He swallows with a click of his throat, suddenly uncertain of the best way to address him, but Ojas merely nods. 

“In the drawing room, sir. Follow me.” With a new carefulness in his manner that was not present the last time they met, Ojas leads the way through the entryway and down the hall, narrow but with tall, arched ceilings laid over with rich frescos to a grand room overlooking a large, effusive garden rolling down to a little pond at the back. The room is richly decorated in hues and patterns familiar to their time in Bombay, but Carver scarcely notices them—all his attention is fixed on the man standing opposite him near the fireplace, back straight and face drawn, fingers idly spinning the head of his walking stick. 

_Felix_. 

His heart falls to his shoes to see him, finally, and he is hard pressed to interpret Felix’s expression—his mouth is as immobile as stone, but his eyes are dark and lively, taking him in like a man drawing a deep breath after spending too long underwater. 

Ojas bows and departs, a silent cloud. Carver finds his tongue. “Felix—” And it’s gone again. He swallows, hands flexing against his thighs. 

Felix is… so beautiful. More than he remembers. He’s painted with the broad brushstrokes of sorrow, but somehow that only makes him more lovely, eyes bright and mouth serious, his elegant figure sparse and stooped with the weight of grief. At Carver’s voice his breath seems to catch, and he takes an aborted step forward, walking stick hanging loosely from one hand. 

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” he murmurs at last, tongue wicking wetness across dry lips. His voice is so quiet but so familiar—it physically pains Carver to remain still, and yet his feet won’t budge from the carpeted floor. 

“I had to see you. I’m sorry that I’ve… stayed away. I didn’t mean to—well. I thought you didn’t want to see me. But then Cullen came yesterday, and—” He stops himself short, embarrassed at how quickly he loses himself to the stumbling, nonsensical ramble of desperation. Felix takes another step forward, more certain this time, and Carver aches to have him in his arms. 

“And? What did he have to say?”

“I’ve been a bloody great fool,” Carver whispers, and that is enough—the tide breaks, and Felix moves across the room so smoothly he seems to be carried forward by a great wind. Carver steps forward too, but his toe catches on the carpet and he half stumbles, arms already open, and they crash together in the center of the room without any heed for propriety. 

“Gods I missed you,” Felix mumbles into his collar. Carver’s throat is too thick with emotion to reply, so he clutches Felix to him for answer, and it seems to suffice. He knots his fingers in the back of his coat and breathes him in until he can draw a steady breath, and then he holds him closer still. 

“I missed you, too,” he says at last, pressing his nose to the short stubble of his hair where it’s trimmed close above his ear. He can’t keep from kissing the same spot, reveling in the warmth and texture, the spicy smell of him like a whole garden of herbs grown wild in the summer heat. “God, Fee, I missed you so much.”

He quivers with silent laughter, but when he speaks his voice is thin and strangely wet. “In that case I forgive you.”

“Forgive me? So easily?” He makes himself pull away a little, though one arm stays fixed around his waist and the other hand comes up to cup one stubbled cheek. Felix closes his eyes and turns into the palm of his hand with a fleeting smile. 

“How could I not? I am at least partly to blame, in any case.” He blinks his eyes open and Carver touches the thin, faintly crinkled skin at the corner of his eye with his thumb. “I’m sorry I left for London without you.”

Carver kisses his forehead, breathing him in. “You’re forgiven.”

“So easily?” Felix quips back, and laughs softly when Carver growls in response. “Oh my darling. Has it been terrible?” He takes Carver’s face between his hands and Carver rests their brows together, sighing. 

“Wretched. But exceedingly more tolerable with you here.”

“I am glad I can ease some of your suffering.” His voice is only a little bit teasing. “You look… very handsome, by the way. I approve of your new wardrobe. And your hair.” He flicks his fingers through the artful, Byronic swoop of Carver’s hair, and Carver huffs and shakes him off. 

“I look ridiculous. Well, I _look_ alright I suppose, but I _feel_ ridiculous. I feel… wrong.”

Felix’s laughing face sobers. “How do you mean?” He takes his hands instead of his face and gives a gentle tug, leading him to the settee under the window. Carver sits, expecting Felix to sit beside him—but instead he perches neatly in his lap, and Carver puts one arm around his waist to steady him, the other across his knees, and feels _right_ for the first time in a long, long while. 

“I keep catching myself trying to do things that aren’t my job anymore. Serving tea, cleaning my own clothes. The maids keep scolding me for laying my own fire. The other night I was so tired from going over accounts with our new steward that I stood in the corner of the dining room to wait on my mother until one of the footmen said something.” He buries his face in Felix’s shoulder and grimaces at his soft laughter. “It’s intolerable.”

“You are adorable,” Felix contradicts, fingers combing through the short hairs at the nape of his neck, just above his collar. “Lord, how I love you.”

A fist seems to squeeze around Carver’s heart and he sighs gustily. “I’ve been quite lost without you, Fee.”

“And I without you. At least on that score nothing has changed.” It's not said like a question, but there appears to be an upward lilt to his voice nonetheless. To reassure him, Carver catches his hand lifts it to him mouth to be kissed. 

“Nothing. And it's a greater comfort than you know.” 

Felix wrinkles his face with concern and stoops just a bit to kiss his brow. “You must allow me to help you. It is a terribly difficult transition and I insist on guiding you through it as best I can.”

“I do not wish to be beholden—”

“Nonsense. It is my pleasure and my greatest desire. Well. Perhaps not my _greatest_ desire.” His eyes crinkle with private amusement and Carver’s breath stutters in his chest against his will. “Tell me, my love, have you a valet of your own, now?”

“No indeed. Not shall I ever take one, not if I can help it. And… and you? Will you take another?” He can't quite keep the jealousy from his voice, and Felix presses a conciliatory kiss to his brow. 

“I got on quite well before you came into my employ, dearest. I think I shall survive now without one. And you would be impossible to replace in any case.”

“I should hope so,” Carver grumbles, though he is appeased by Felix’s tender amusement. 

“Do not fear, my dear. You are the only man to whom I lend my heart.”

Carver shuts his eyes and tucks his head along the curve of Felix’s neck. “Good.”

“Were you uncertain, on that score? After this last year together?”

“I did not want to… presume. My behavior…”

“Was understandable. I panicked, and left you all alone in your confusion— _that_ , if anything, is behavior that requires recompense.” Felix squeezes his hand meaningfully. “Only tell me what I must do to make it up to you, and I shall do it.” 

Carver draws in a slow breath. “How long are you in London?”

“Another fortnight, perhaps. My father requested my assistance on some of his experiments, but after that I will have nothing holding me here—except you, if you should wish it.”

“And after?”

“There has been no one inhabiting my father’s country estate for some time. I had thought of going there.” Felix hesitates, and looks at Carver from under his lashes in the way that he does when he wants to ask something of him. “Would you come with me, Hawke? _Can_ you?”

“I would like nothing more,” he confesses, “but I do not know whether my mother and sister can spare me so soon. There is a great deal to be done, most of it deadly dull.”

“Being seen in society, you mean. Well that is easily remedied. I will stay in town, then, at least another few months. In the autumn, perhaps, you will reconsider?”

The tone of his voice is so hopeful, and his eyes so bright, that Carver cannot deny him. “Of course, my dear. Anything.” 

“Good. Then that's settled.”

“Will you come to stay with us?” Carver asks suddenly, before he can think the thought in full. “When your father no longer has need of you?”

“I would be delighted.” Felix grins down at him, eye glinting like he’s ready to pounce, but he’s forestalled by a tap on the door. He stands up very quickly, flushing, but relaxes when Gereon Alexius lets himself in, taking in the scene with cool grey eyes. 

“Mr Hawke. I hear congratulations are in order.”

“Sir.” He stands and bows—not as low as he would have before his elevation to the nobility—and Gereon nods with approval. 

“I must say, the only surprise is that it took you so long to call. But you’re forgiven.” He smiles very slightly as he shakes Carver’s hand. “I hope you will allow Felix and I to welcome you into society properly. I am hosting a little get-together tomorrow evening, just a small party, and you and your sister and your mother would be most welcome.”

“Thank you, we would be delighted,” he says, though he can already feel his spine locking up with tension. 

“Lord Rutherford and Mr Dorian Pavus will be there, of course. I know they would be happy to see you.” He glances at his son with a faint smile. “But that is for tomorrow. For tonight, I would be honored if you would stay and take dinner with us. Ojas’ sister is cooking, if that is any enticement.”

“It is, sir,” Carver says without a trace of deceit. Ojas’ sister Ilia cooks like a dream—in fact, his mouth is already watering at the thought of it. “If I might just write a note to my mother to let her know I won’t be back until late.”

With the note sent, Carver submits himself to a tour of the Alexius townhouse. It’s a peculiar blend of English and Indian decor, perhaps a little more heavily toward English than the house in Bombay, and it gives him more than one pang of nostalgia for the easy simplicity of their days abroad. His musings on that score are interrupted toward the end when Felix slips his hand into Carver’s, behind his father’s back, and whispers, “Imagine the fun we shall have traveling together now. No more of this ridiculous class divide that you always insist on.”

 _That_ is a pleasing thought indeed. He has a little vision of walking along the seaside in Nice, arm in arm with his lover while Felix spins his cane to illustrate his conversation more than he uses it to walk, and he squeezes Felix’s fingers in acknowledgement before forcing himself to let go. 

Count Alexius is aware, he believes, of the… understanding he has with his son. He is just as eccentric as his son, perhaps even more so, and the time he spent with them in Bombay was likely telling. Felix was more relaxed and genuine there than almost anywhere else, except perhaps Honnleath, and the way he acted around Carver was entirely unmistakable. Gereon Alexius doesn’t seem to mind. He didn’t bat an eye when his son kept his valet nearby at all times, nor protest when Carver took his meals with his superiors, and he doesn’t bat an eyelash now when Felix loops his arm through Carver’s and leans against him as they head to dinner. 

Supper is affable in conversation and delicious in content, and Felix’s hand rests on Carver’s knee below the table for most of the meal. He excuses himself after, leaving Carver and Gereon alone in the drawing room with port, and suddenly the air between them seems oppressive. Carver grips his glass firmly and stares at the liquid within rather than drink it, wanting his wits about him for whatever is to come.

Gereon clears his throat and shifts in his chair. “You are particularly close with my son, I understand.”

Carver freezes. “Sir?”

“Come, Mr Hawke, there is no need for dissembling.” Gereon smiles thinly, and his eyes are flat and watchful. “Mr Pavus is a close friend of the family, and I am infamous for moving in… unusual circles. I am not accusing you of anything. I only mean to ensure that my son’s happiness and comfort are assured.”

Absurdly, he relaxes just a bit. He is more prepared for a _hurt my son and I’ll see your body dumped in the Thames_ discussion than for accusations of sodomy and other illicit deeds. Not that he isn’t guilty of such things, but his own view of the matter is somewhat different from society at large—but so, it seems, is the Count’s. He lifts the tumbler of port to his nose and makes an appreciative noise in his throat. 

“Believe me, sir, I want nothing more than that very same thing. Felix is exceedingly important to me.” _I love him_ , he thinks, but he doesn’t say it out loud. Such a confession seems uncalled-for. And indeed, Gereon nods with satisfaction at his words and presses him no further. 

A moment or two later of semi-comfortable silence, and Felix returns, pink-cheeked and smelling faintly of rosewater. Gereon swallows the last of his port and stands, professing weariness and wishing them a good night. As soon as the door sifts shut behind him, Felix is in Carver’s lap.

“Hello there,” Carver murmurs, hiding his startlement with a hand to the small of Felix’s back. 

“Forgive me, but I have been aching for this since you walked into the parlor,” Felix says, breathless, and without another word he takes his face in both hands and kisses him. 

Carver groans without quite meaning to and tears himself away, cheeks warm. “Forgive me, I—I forget that this is not Cullen’s house, should we—”

“We should,” Felix forestalls, dragging his fingers through his hair and pulling him close. “We _must_.”

Carver gives up the fight, discovery be damned, and slides his palm up the inner seam of Felix’s thigh. Though he sits crosswise on his lap, he widens his thighs as much as he can in invitation, and when one knee slips off he braces that foot against the floor and uses it for leverage, pressing himself into Carver as much as he can. His mouth is hungry, and when Carver turns his hand to cup between his legs, he’s already hard in his breeches. 

“I’ve been thinking of this all evening,” Felix whispers when Carver makes a querying sound. “Dinner was _unbearable_.”

Carver had been too focused on making a good impression on Gereon—as an equal this time, rather than a valet—but now that he has such evidence, he is quick to follow on Felix’s heels. The weight of him across his thighs is utterly delicious, and he sits a little lower on the settee to better appreciate the pressure against his lap. “What may I do for you?” he murmurs, petting him through his breeches without giving much relief. Felix’s resultant squirm makes him _ache_. 

“I wish you wouldn’t tease me,” Felix gasps. “Please, I’ve missed you, I’ve dreamt of you every night since—”

Carver moves quickly, turning him onto his back on the settee and fumbling with his breeches. Startled, Felix goes quiet, his mouth in a perfect “O” shape as Carver pushes aside fabric and bares his manhood. Saliva rises to his mouth almost immediately, but he makes himself slow down, laying soft kisses against the head and he breathes in the scent of his arousal. Felix goes very still but for the quiver in his limbs, and Carver smiles as he opens his mouth and swallows him whole. 

After so long spent apart, the familiarity is so sweet it brings tears to his eyes. He lets his mouth do the work and busies his hands with Felix’s thighs, draping them over his shoulders and massaging him through his breeches. He’s still fully dressed, apart from his cock, and the disparity is clearly getting under his skin; he squirms on the settee, fingers clawing at the fine brocade and booted heels digging into Carver’s back. It’s a little uncomfortable, but it’s worth it to see him fall apart. And when he falls, it’s _spectacular._ He bites his lip to keep quiet but still sobs, head thrown back, flushed from chin to hairline, everything else hidden by his fancy clothes now rumpled and pulled askew in his ecstasy. 

Carver pulls back and spits into his handkerchief, then returns for a soft kiss to his prick as it starts to slowly soften. “I missed you too, my love,” he says quietly. With tender motions, he tucks Felix back into his clothing and gets up off his knees with only the slightest creak of his joints. Felix is languid and satiated, but he still lifts a hand and tugs him down for a proper kiss, lips blurring together and tongues in one another’s mouths. 

“Upstairs,” Carver says when he tries to reach for the fastenings on his breeches. He’s well and truly aroused, now, but the lingering discomfort of having such carryings-on in a public room makes him hesitate. “And I’ll make love to you all night long if you so wish it.”

“Carry me?” Felix asks plaintively, pouting when Carver doesn’t answer right away. “The staff is trustworthy, Carver, they won’t say anything if we appear to be… erm, in one another’s pockets.”

“As you wish, little prince.” He smirks at Felix’s noise of complaint—he called him _little prince_ often in their year abroad, as it was too perfect a moniker not to use—and scoops him up off the settee, pleased that his new life of leisure doesn’t make the task any more difficult. “Hold on to me.”

“I always do.” Felix wraps his arms around his neck and rests his head there, nose tucked against his cravat. He sighs happily. “Will you bugger me when we get upstairs?”

Carver chokes and tightens his grip, face flushing to the sound of Felix laughter. “If that is what you desire.” He only hopes they don’t run into any servants _now_. The state of his breeches alone would be cause for gossip throughout the house for a month at least, and he doesn’t think he’d ever live it down. 


End file.
